Brown Dog

Five mornings I edge the car to a stop
at the corner, in a neighborhood
served by two-laned roads. To the left
of the stop sign is a wide yard like a corn field,
yellow in winter and green in July.
This is the dog’s home, this is the dog’s
property, where he posts himself,
silky, tousled, his coat like golden taffy,
his eyes drinking air, at this corner
I come to a stop, hang my arm out the window,
turn my head fully to look at him,
sitting there all happy for no reason. No reason at all.
Then he’ll gather himself, silk brown,
the fetlocks of his front legs tangled
a little with the play of the grass,
and he’ll peer into some distance at
some sight that only he sees
while I watch from the car seat
so envious of his freedom, his ignorance
of me, his watcher, so near his boundary.


TAWhite, November 2005